On Poetry, and the Typical American Reader… by Hosho McCreesh

Seventeen syllables? Fuck, even that is too much to ask of them.

Three Poems by Doug Draime

Papa

I read somewhere
many years ago
that Hemingway
wrote while standing up.
I also read, I think,
in the same article,
that he was always drunk
when he wrote.

How well did he hold
his booze? Well, those
reports vary greatly. Though,
having been a heavy drinker
at times, myself, I can easily
imagine Papa doing a fair amount
of staggering, abrupt
short lunges, and pitching
forward uncontrollably, against the
chest of drawers that he worked on.
It just stands to reason.

And I’m sure there were those
moments of pure terror and the
misty-blurred vision, as the chest of
drawers begins to topple, from his
weight – with a bottle of Bombay gin
and his shiny Royal typewriter –
as they all came crashing down on
him. And Papa too drunk
to give a tinker’s fuck
about any of it, laughing
hysterically as he rolled out
from under the mess.

____________

for Malala

A bullet cannot cease
the thought of freedom,
nor can barbarism
crush the indomitable
courage of a fourteen
year old girl, who’s
in-your-face defiance
rightly brings shame to
the Taliban,

and to all cowardly men
upon the face of the earth.
Whose spineless apathy, and
blind conformity sanction
vicious oppression and war.

Malala was shot twice, in the
head and neck.

And the bullet in her head ran
all around in her skull, but
did not stop her extraordinary
tenacity, the depth of
which few of us can even
imagine.

In her recovery standing
tall still, and speaking out
as before, declaring
her right of existence,
her right to education,
her right to speak the truth,

with her smile of fearlessness
and her pure heart
of justice, nailing the world
to its horrific wall of
brutal complacency.

____________

Winter Storm

Chapel bells on the SOU campus
a few blocks away
are striking four. Clouds cover
half the Cascade mountain range
through the dense falling snow,

the peaks sticking up
through them
like nipple less white breasts
yearning and expanding
for caress. Cars and trucks and school buses
climb the foothills like slow steamed chariots.

Molecules of exhaust and fog and snow
merging. Two teenagers in T-shirts and jeans
whip by down the snow-packed street
on snowboards like they were skateboards
and it was just another hot summer day.

Two Poems by Sissy Buckles

Dear man

And the one morning
she woke up and finally knew
she’d had enough
and screwed her courage
to the sticking point
and announced out loud
that she was leaving
in the very next second
her beloved dog’s wooden brush
came hurtling like a rocket
splitting open her scalp
the first thought
damn that man has a good aim
next thought shit
is that hot red blood
streaming down my forehead
and then that dear man
had the grand idea
that holding a lit cigarette
close to her face
was a good idea
to convince her to stay.

____________

Hells Angels San Berdoo Chapter – 1965

(dedicated to old freedom fighters everywhere)

Slipping away from the family crowded round
meatballs and cheese bubbling together
in 1960’s vintage fondue pot
for a quick Christmas beer down the street
at my old hangout The Spring Valley Inn
where I first saw roots band Beat Farmers
loud and plowed on that rough dinky stage,
rushing out to catch their last set
after working the midnight shift
my college job at Tower Records;
a few blocks away the titty-bar lot is packed
as I enter welcoming lounge gloom
squinting a bit from Cali sunshine,
regulars lined up with their usual,
push coins down the music machine
play some Patsy Cline and Social D
try to subdue that prickly feeling of holiday dread
3PM bartendress has her smiling
Hee-Haw hottie look going on
pool tables and dart board deserted today
and no hard questions to be answered
this crowd’s only interested in drinking
I even get to see a fight
over a stolen pack of cigs with a
grizzled old dude parked in corner booth
wearing leather vest and a ponytail
quickly spits out dentures
before trouncing stupid kid half his age
while a burning Ring of Fire wails in the background
to this biker ballet contretemps –
I take my cue and mosey back to suburbiaville
where smoked turkey on the patio barbecue
should be just about done cooked.

 

Beatles Bathtub by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Blonde chick
bought me Beatles
Live @ BBC 2
for Christmas

so,
listening now
in the tub
with
mi amigo, Mr. Bubble

the tiny
portable stereo
shakes
if George
turns up the treble
or maybe
the trouble

as the blonde
delivers
a pint of Sierra Nevada

she,
sometimes
gives me too much treble
as well

but
George’s guitar
sounds great
in the acoustics
of the bathroom …

you should try it

the beer is good
and cold in winter
the blonde is good
(even when bad)
and hot in winter

and I love her.

THE TELL by LYNNE SAVITT

he says there’s a wasp
inside his window
he has to kill i

hear him swatting
the screen with
rolled up weekly
supermarket flyers
while i wait on the phone

‘’i never kill them all
that way’’, he states,
‘’when i was a kid
i believed other wasps
could hear the death cry
& they would be deterred.’’

‘’do you still believe that?”
i ask
he answers by laughing

UPON VIEWING THE MOVIE HOWL by Charles Plymell

AFTER THE BIG TRIAL OVER HIS POEM HOWL
ALLEN GINSBERG OWNED THE CANDY STORE
AND IF HE REALLY LIKED YOUR LOLLYPOPS
HE’D LET YOU COME IN HIS BACK DOOR

— 2011

____________
Poetry postcard #1 by Glass Eyes Books/Ecstatic Peace Books.
Printed at Flying Object, Hadley, MA, in an edition of 200/26 signed, May 2011.

sex & booze: poem by lynne savitt

baby, when you are really drunk you love me less but fuck me better

American Sentence by Pris Campbell

Late in the long tense night after Vietnam he calls out the bar girl’s name.

American Sentence by Win Harms

one or two at the most, three i’m on the table, four beneath the host

Heaven or Hell by Joseph Farley

God created drunk weekends foreshadowing eternity.